


A Melody Under The Never Ending Downpour

by Xx_Madi_xX



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Sherlock, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Rain, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xx_Madi_xX/pseuds/Xx_Madi_xX
Summary: Breaking the soft gaze for a second, Sherlock's eyes flicker back to the wound and then his eyes are back on John's and he utters one word John has never heard about his scar."Beautiful." It's almost a whisper with how close the two mens faces are.





	A Melody Under The Never Ending Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so first ever fanfic! Note I am not a doctor and therefore do not know of many medical practices so they may not be accurate. Criticism greatly appreciated!!!

The rain patters onto the window of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, stretched out on the sofa, his hands together and to his chin; a sign of a good crime scene solved

_Or as he would put it, a puzzle,_ John thought dryly. That's all cases were to his good friend; puzzles. Something to occupy his mind from boredom. The wall itself has seen what happens if Sherlock Holmes' boredom is not cured.

With a shake of the head, John shifts his focus to the injury at hand. A cut on his left side, not deep enough to kill but enough to scar. _Another one to the collection_, John's thoughts filled to him. He's had plenty of training and practice, his hands work on muscle memory. Disinfect there, needs extra stitching there-

Unfortunately army doctor training can't help your arms not reaching around to be able to stitch the wound well enough, so with a heavy sigh and a grunt, John placed the needle on the table next to his bloodied shirt from the nights activities.

John leaned back in his chair, scrunching his eyes together in frustration. His other senses came forward as he relaxed. He could smell the last experiment the great detective had conducted, could tatse the faint copper of blood, and could hear the rain as it tapped against the window, a melody under the never ending downpour. Underneath it all, he heard the soft inhale and exhale of his flatmate.

John looked over the still, yet breathing form. _Emphasis on the breathing_, John reminds himself. He has to remind himself, every now and then, that his good friend is actually with him. The fall effected them both dearly, though who was most effected cannot be determined. Moriarty had said he would burn the heart out of Sherlock, and that he did. But after the fall, John felt it was his heart that had actually burnt. 

2 years gave John a lot to reflect on. His family life, like how Harry was promising to get off the drink for good. His military service and that dreadful bullet that ripped him away from what made him feel like he was doing something. What he would do now his best friend was gone. But he thought about the one and only consulting detective the most. From their first meeting to the fall, John thought of every second in as much detail as his brain could manage. The more John thought, the more he wished, the more he prayed, that Sherlock wasn't dead. He couldn't move away from the genius that was his best friend and truly grieved. 

He tried to move on, really. He met countless women, including a woman called Mary, but they could never work out and John finally understood why. Every date he'd had went wrong or didn't work around him. Every date accused John of being with him. 

During those two years of grieving John Hamish Watson realized something he had been so blind to before; he was utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

So when Sherlock came back, things were different. He stopped seeing women, and if Sherlock noticed, he didn't comment. John spent more time sneaking glances at his flatmate and had more than a few fantasies of them together in bed. Those John would try to erase from his mind as soon as he saw the man in the morning. God forbid Sherlock deduced that about him-

"John," A deep voice rumbled, "You're thinking too loud its distracting do stop." It's as if he can read his mind. That baritone noise takes John's wondering thoughts away and back into the pitter patter rhythm rain flat.

"Ah Sherlock, sorry about that," John stops himself at the single apology, "I assume you've wrapped up your case?" He asks.

"Our."

John pauses.

"Our?"

"Yes our. You said 'I assume you've wrapped up your case', but you were there also so it is our case, not mine." He concludes, one eye poking open to look at the doctor.

"Not like I help much anyway." John mutters under his breath, self deprecation easily slipping to the surface with an eye roll. Of course, the detective never misses anything and easily caught onto what he had said.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"You do know I value your opinion, right?"

John sighs and replies with "I know."

If Sherlock notices the disbelief in his voice, he didn't comment. Probably knowing doing so would be 'a bit not good'. 

Said man lifts himself off the sofa ever so gracefully and stretches, _like a cat after a good nap,_ John thinks, _but that cat doesn't actually sleep_. Sherlock then turns his attention to John, seeing the predicament he is in and easily deducing his flatmate can't reach the wound himself.

"John, would you like my help with your cut?" He asks in the most genuine and kind tone John has ever heard from the man.

John simply nods and smiles, more of a smirk Sherlock sometimes thinks. He leans back on the chair as Sherlock walks forward and keels at John's feet, analyses the wound and John's handywork at disinfecting it. He then reaches for the needle, careful of the sharp edge, and gets to work on helping his flatmate.

Every hiss or strong intake of breath John makes as he works sends waves of guilt into Sherlock's being. _Sentiment is a chemical defect_, Sherlock's subconscious reminds him, though it's effect has long since gone. 

John shouldn't of been hurt. A miscalculation on Sherlock's part meant his friend had another scar to add to the already big pile of them. The man who had hurt John would definitely see the consequences, Mycroft assured him of it.

John could see the worry etched in his friends face and assured him that he wasn't bothered about the mark that would be a permanent show of their adventures together.

With another hiss of pain, John closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side. Sherlock took the opportunity to rake his eyes over the toned form of his best friend, made sure he had every curve and edge deeply stored in his mind palace.

Along his adventure of the shameless looking, Sherlock came face to face with one scar that meant the world to both of them; John's bullet wound. Sherlock's eyes roamed over the ring of muscle, a wound that told a most heartfelt story. A wound that brought the two together. A wound that John carried around with pride yet shame. A wound that was most beautiful.

Noticing that his friend had stopped what he was doing, John turned his head and opened his eyes to see the most fascinating discovery;

Sherlock analysing his bullet wound.

Like, seriously analysing it.

John considered himself a more self confident man, but under the icy gaze of his best friend, he couldn't help but flush, two rosy patches forming on his face as he turns his head back around, starting to become self conscious. His bullet wound was not something he was proud of; it showed his failure as a doctor and failure as a shoulder. And as that cold stare continued, he shuffled his feet against the floor and backed them into the chair legs.

This was getting weird.

"Um Sherlock-" his words died out as Sherlock moved closer.

Heart rate increasing, breaths quickening. _What was he doing?_ Sherlock moved closer, so slow John thought he was imagining it all. His heart pounding in his chest as he felt what happened next.

Sherlock pressed his soft, plump lips against the ring of muscle.

It was like time stopped. Their two worlds crashing together all of a sudden, until Sherlock pulled away and those two entities were pushed back.

From John's peripheral vison, he saw Sherlock's large hand come to cup his chin and turn John's face towards his. John allowed it obediently and what he saw was a basic but very important deduction.

Elevated pulse, pupils dialated.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him too. 

Judging by the look of understanding on the others face, John's feelings were also on the table.

All walls have been broken down, it's the two of them now. No pitter patter of rain, just two sets of eyes glossing over each others lovingly.

Breaking the soft gaze for a second, Sherlock's eyes flicker back to the wound and then his eyes are back on John's and he utters one word John has never heard about his scar.

"Beautiful." It's almost a whisper with how close the two mens faces are. 

Sherlock moves his hand from John's chin to the wound and traces the muscle with his finger all whilst remaining that tender gaze.

Neither man knows who moved first, but lips touched. Tender, sweet, just what they both needed.

All the puzzle pieces of their lives had merged as one and created something beautiful, something completely different and something totally them.

And as Sherlock broke off, he did not move away, instead he stayed close to John and whispered "Let's finish up that wound".

With a quick kiss to the lips, Sherlock moved back to fixing John's wound, all whilst John watched in fascination.

The rain had ceased outside and as Sherlock worked, he hummed. _A piece of his own_, John mused. A melody under the never ending downpour that was their life. But not for much longer, John knew.

Turns out one seemingly frustrating night became the biggest moment in the consulting detective and good doctor's life.


End file.
